Time of the Orc
by Northmen
Summary: It has been years since the defeat of the Alliance at the hands of the Horde and humanity is being pushed to the edge of existence. Follow the stories of the few surviving Alliance and the victorious Horde in this alternative chapter of Warcraft.
1. Chapter 1

**On A Boat**

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Erik Greenhilt frowned in contemplation as the swift Kul'tiran frigate cut its ways through the waters of the Blackened Straight and toward the walled harbor of Menethil. Cold, but refreshing wind cut across his tanned face as he rested his cloth ridden hand on the hilt of his sword and toyed with it. Erik's mind began to drift away, like the wafts of smoke from the oncoming city. Silently, he thought back.

Thirty years. Thirty years since the first orc had entered the world of Azeroth. Twenty years since the fall of Stormwind to the Horde. Nineteen since the creation of the Alliance. Nineteen years since the human nations of Lordaeron, Dalaran, Stromgarde, Alterac, Gilneas and Kul'tiras had united under one banner with the elven kingdom of Quel'thalas and the twin dwarfen clans of Bronzebeard and Wildhammer. Nineteen years since that legendary day where all the races of Azeroth had united to destroy the alien invaders of the Horde.

Sixteen years since the betrayal of Alterac. Sixteen years since Alliance pushed the Horde back to the Hellfire Citadel. Sixteen years since that tragic defeat. Sixteen years since Lord Aduin Lothar and Khadger were slain and the armies of the Alliance were split asunder before the might of the Horde. Sixteen years since the Horde recaptured the Loch Modan and Dun Morogh. Sixteen years since the Alliance sabotaged the Thandol Span and abandoned the Khaz Modan to the Horde.

Fifteen years since the Horde armada defeated the Alliance fleet in Baradin Bay and occupied the city of Soutshore. Fifteen years since the Alterac and Horde armies ransacked the city of Hillsbarad.

Fourteen since the rebuilding of the Thandol Span by the Horde and the fall of the Arathi Highlands and the kingdom of Stromgarde. Thirteen since the siege of Dalaran and the first assaults on Gilneas and Lordaeron. Twelve since the first orc's allied themselves to the Amani Trolls and the elven forests began to burn.

Ten years. Ten years since the armies of Ogrim launched their surprised thrust into the very heart of Lordaeron. Ten years since the fall of Lordenholde, Capital of Lordaeron.

"Erik, I asked if you were ready!?" roared Sergeant Brugant.

Erik quickly snapped back to earth, his mouth speaking words out reflex, ahead of his conscious thought.

"Sir, Yes sir!" he bellowed back, "A Kul'tiras marine is always ready sir!"

"Damn rights they are," growled Brugant assuaged only slightly, "Now. Get your ass back below deck and to your platoon. We'll be docking in twenty-minutes!"

Erik swirled around and bounded off without a second thought, simply glad he had escaped any verbal or physical abuse from the sergeant. 1st Company Marines were not ones permitted to enjoy contemplation or prolonged periods of thought. They couldn't afford it. Not with the war. Not with the battles and hardships they were forced to endure. It would kill them.

Squeezing through a group of muscle bound sailors attempting to carry a small cannon unto the deck, Erik slipped down into the lower levels of the vessel. The already too thin hallway was clogged with crates of supplies and bored soldiers and Erik had to tread carefully through the halls for risk of upsetting something or someone. The frigate was not meant to be a transport. It was a warship meant to fight toe to toe with other ships. But with the scarcity of sea going vessels of any kind in the Kul'tiras Navy, the 2nd Regional Fleet had been forced to make do with what it could. Truth be told, certifiable transport ships were the least of its problems.

"Erik!" cried a voice from farther down the hall. An ageing man of average height but stocky build, wearing only trousers and a tight fitting undershirt that showed off his considerable muscle, was making his way toward Erik. His face was muddy and red like his pony tailed bound hair, and he wore what looked like a permanent scowl on his face. "Where the hell were you boy? We'll be docking in no time!"

"Speaking of time, Henry why aren't you suited up?" replied Erik, "We are docking soon as you say."

The younger man grinned as Henry's face grew –if possible- even redder. The old man had probably gotten so worked up about his charge that he had completely forgotten about himself. Typical Henry. Not that he would admit it though.

"I'm still having that damn dent worked out of it by Brolly," he retorted, "You know? The one I got taking that bloody orc hammer for you?"

"You mean the orc hammer wielded by that drunk lad in the tavern? The skinny, land hugging, teenager at The Cutlass?"

"Aw short yer trap boy," growled Henry who had by now reached the taller man. At six and half feet, Erik fairly towered over Henry. "Let's just get with everyone else and report."

Erik nodded and together the two soldiers finished the rest of the way to their platoon's dorms. Spread out between two rooms, the marines had sleep four to a room and two men to hammock. The entire affair had been immensely uncomfortable, the combination of unwanted body heat from sweaty limbs combined with the stifling heat of the lower deck made sleeping a wretched joke, one that constantly mocked the platoon on the two week sail from Drisburg.

The doors to the two cabins were open with the six other members of the platoon waiting outside or in the door frame.

"Bout time you got ere," Arog said as they approached, his wide healthy moustache twitching in irritation, "We got to be in rank for the landing."

Erik nodded glibly, noting the irony of the situation. All were so concerned with rushing him down to the platoon. Yet in a matter of minute they would simply come back up again on the deck. The only difference is that this way they would be in rank and file, which would make organizing the unusually large disembark easier on the captain commanding it.

"Aye," piped up Brolly, "I've finished tinkeren with that rifle of yours Erik. It should be workin fine now."

The young dwarf with the trimmed brown beard and bright hazel eyes held up the rifle in question and Erik took it gratefully. Marines were a versatile soldier who fought both with armor and sword like infantry but also with gun and shot like a gunnery regiment. It was an odd combination that didn't always communicate well in large blocks or formations such as was the common strategy of war, nor did it particularly allow for any great expertise in either category. Indeed, most would consider such versatility more of a weakness then a boon. But it was the intense and brutal training of the Marine Companies that made the combination possible. In the end it simply came down to the men fighting.

As Lord Gammon put it after the battle for Balor, "They are the god damn best soldiers I've ever seen."

"Try not to blow yourself up with it eh Erik?" murmured Deven sarcastically.

Erik turned to face the thin pale man and he nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement. Deven's face had a grin on it that could have been mistaken for a look of light comradely were it not for the sneer in his eyes. Erik truly distasted the man. It was a pity he was also the best swordsman in the platoon.

"Come now," laughed Joe jovially as he wrapped an arm around Erik's shoulder, "The lad knows all the warnen signs of a choked up boomstick. And he knows what to do when it happens. Turn the gun around and shoot the damn bullet out the back butt of the weapon!"

The entire group gave a soft laugh and Caleb picked up his medical pack from off the ground in the doorway, "Well I'd say we better get going don't you?"

He glanced at the leader of the platoon for confirmation.

Michael Denworth smiled warmly, his razor blue eyes merry, "Soon. But you may wish to move Caleb. I really do think Henry would appreciate the chance to finally don his armor…"

***

Nearly all was quiet on the deck of the frigate Galliant save for the spray of the sea water, the whistle of the wind, and the scampering of bare feet across the deck as sailors moved to keep the ship moving in the right direction. The ten platoons of the 1st Company Marines were arrayed across the deck in perfect order and formation, two hands held tightly behind their back, heads pointed toward the helm, their focus entirely on the gallow Captain before them.

The man was of moderate height though thin in build. His mustache was of a midnight ash that helped highlight the paleness of his skin. He looked fairly ill and someone to whom few strong men would give credence but for the feathered cap on his head that signified his hard earned rank. It was all the soldiers and sailors of the boat needed to be silent and listen.

The Captain gave a short cough before beginning, his voice strong and rich, "The orc have come. We knew they would eventually. Tens of thousands strong now they climb from their holes in Grim Batol and Dun Modr. They besiege Menethil with but a single purpose. The eradication of every man, woman and child who lives behind its walls. We have seen it before. We have watched as the tide of green evil swept through our cities, going house by house, butchering all occupants inside them. We saw it at Stormwind, at Stromgarde, at Lordaeron."

He raised his fist high then, "But we will not see it again. By the might of Kul'tiras and all free people of Azeroth we won't let another such slaughter come to pass. By the Light, WE WILL NOT SEE IT AGAIN! We will stand strong, we will stand firm, and we WILL SAVE THIS CITY!"

His final words were a roar of fury and undeniable righteousness that echoed in the minds of all the men on the ship. It was a cry of loss and brutal determination. Of pain and rage.

"FOR THE ALLIANCE!" he cried and the cry was taken up by all the men on the boat.

"FOR THE ALLIANCE! FOR THE ALLIANCE! FOR THE ALLIANCE!"

The chorus of voices grew louder and louder, becoming a tidal wave of noise and sound. It continued for sometime before suddenly coming to a halt at the swift motion of silence from the captain.

"Your Sergeants will inform you of your specific instruction upon docking. Light be with you all."

With that came a cry from a nearby horn and as one the company swerved and turned to face the stern. Before them lay a Menthil under siege. And an orc army waiting to be defeated.

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Reviews would be awesome. :D


	2. Chapter 2

**The Street**

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"Take cover!"

Brshhhh!

The sound of the incoming boulder as it smashed into the stone two-story building beside Erik sent his ears ringing and shrapnel and rock raining upon his head. Grunting in pain, he ran to the cover of a nearby building, praying that none of the heavier stones caved in his skull. The impact of a second boulder nearby incurred a wretched cry cut short.

"I said take cover Light damnit!" roared Sergeant Brugant.

"You all right boy?" growled Henry concerned as Erik sprinted into the makeshift bunker of a former Menethil Harbor armory. Erik nodded, licking his lips and tasting blood.

"Seventeen orc. Incoming, four hundred paces, West road," warned Brolly from his tenuous position atop a broken building top.

"2nd platoon form up with me on the west corner street. 1st platoon take up position with Brolly on that rooftop and cover us. Watch for any incoming projectiles. Go go go!"

Erik and the rest of 1st platoon raced to follow his orders. They would only have a matter of minutes before the orc finished reloading their massive siege catapults and began a new volley of bombardments. Michael and Deven were already on the roof as Erik, accompanied by Henry, arrived. Arog and Joe were close behind. Michael had ordered Caleb to stay put and tend to the wounded soldiers in the makeshift shelter of the armory. Nearly two dozen soldiers lay injured there with only Caleb and a nurse-in training to assist them.

Michael dearly hoped Caleb could save some of them but in his heart of hearts he knew that most of them would die without proper medical care. Caleb was a master of his art, but there is only so much a field surgeon can do. His expertise lay in patching up a soldiers minor wounds long enough for them to finish a mission, and get home. Not for dealing with mortal injuries.

"Make your shots count," reminded Michael as he loaded his rifle. "We have plenty of shot, but every pellet missed is a time in which one of those bastards has a chance kill our fellows."

"We don't need to be reminded of that," growled Henry as he took aim. Three hundred paces and incoming charged a voracious party of orc.

"Ugly brutes," muttered Joe under his breath. Erik couldn't agree more. Every one of the monsters stood above six foot, with bulging muscles, and gnashing yellow teeth. Most bore iron caps with two great horns protruding from them and they roared and hollered like beasts, their eyes glowing red and primal. Truly nothing so savage could have ever been dreamed up by even the most nightmarish of demons.

"Three hundred paces and closing," called Brolly again.

"Fire on my mark!" cried Michael, "Three, two, one, fire!"

Sparks of light and clouts of smoke blew from the muzzle of the marine's rifles as they hurled the tiny metal balls into the thick etof the oncoming orc. All seven shots bore true but only two bore fatal blood. The rest of the orc charge undeterred.

"Reload!" called Michael.

The command was unnecessary however as he and the rest of the marine were already halfway through reloading new shot and applying more gunpowder.

"100 hundred paces!"

"Fire!"

More smoke and thunder as the marines let loose a second volley this time felling four of the creatures. Mere seconds later the twelve remaining orc slammed into the nine marines on the ground and the clash of steel on steel could be heard. Michael and Arog finished reloading first and fired quickly in concert, with Deven, Henry and Joe close behind. Lagging behind the others as he struggled to stuff new powder into the rifle, Erik quickly scanned for new targets.

The ensuing melee below was vicious beyond compare. Only eight of the orc remained but they assaulted the marines mercilessly, and already four of the armored troopers lay flat, blood leaking from their wounds. The remaining marines dueled the orc furiously, parrying their axe strokes and dodging their meaty fists.  
The combatants were closed too tightly to make accuracy possible. Erik quickly drew his sword as his compatriots did likewise. Sprinting downed the ruined staircase they rushed to join their comrades in the street. Deven led the way; his pale blonde locks bouncing, with Michael close behind.

In the few seconds it had taken them to reach the bottom another marine had fallen and the orc had successfully surrounded the group. With a mighty swing the largest orc, and the only one bearing armor in the form of a chainmail cuirass across his chest, decapitated another human soldier. Erik assumed him to be the leader and was not disappointed that upon noticing the reinforcing marines, that he ordered three of his kin to turn and face them. Arog stopped just short of the attack, bringing up his rifle, and sending a shot straight into the brain of one of the orc. Apparently unaware as to the mortal blow he had just been dealt, the orc continued forward, his axe raised high.

The warriors clashed with a mighty clang. Like lightning Deven rushed toward the leader of the orc, a wicked grin on his face, his sword held straight and firmed. Like a viper his blade snaked forward parrying the orcs forceful blow and then returning it in kind with a violent riposte that cleaved straight through his arm. Twisting he turned for another blow, slicing through the orcs abdomen and metal armor.

Erik himself just managed to parry one of the orcs cut and the force of the blow sent quivers up his arm. Henry, however, was right beside him and he quickly used the opening to cleave through the orcs throat. Beside them the rest of the platoon quickly finished of the other two orc and as one they proceeded to lay into the remaining four. In a matter of moments the violent exchange was over.

"Are you alright," asked Michael of Sergeant Brugant as he nursed a cut on his arm.

"Just a minor flesh wound," reassured Brugant, though he winced as he said it.

"Just the same I think we should have Caleb look at it," said Michael concerned. The wound looked deep.

"No, no, it's fine," Brugant, returned adamantly, "Boy's got far worse to tend to."

His gaze dipped morosely to the six human corpses around him. Even this small exchanged had cost Kul'tiras dearly.

"Say what you will about orc tactics and brains," muttered Joe darkly, "There is no denying they know how to fight."

Erik nodded in agreement. One to one, in a straight up fight, the orc would win nine out of ten times against their human opponents. Still, it was a harsh lesson to learn. Suddenly a great whistling was heard and a noisy crash resounded nearby. The orc bombardment had begun anew.

"Arog and Brolly, I want you to remain here and watch the road. If anything hostile moves our way you are to retreat immediately to the armory to warn us. Do not engage. The rest of you, help me with these bodies," ordered Michael taking control of the situation.

The group quickly divided into pairs. Brugant and Joe attempted to lift one corpse but faltered as Brugant failed to lift his end.

"Sergeant, why don't you go ahead and take point?" suggested Michael pointedly as Joe lifted the corpse on his own and laid it across his broad shoulders.

Brugant, shooting Michael a glance mixed with anger and thanks, gruffly replied, "Course, who knows, one of those bastards might have snuck around our position."

As one they began to trot forward, the stench of blood and guts, nearly overwhelming as the cries of death and battle permeating the city. Menethil Harbor continued to burn.

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